


Take me to the room where the red’s all red  (take me out of my head, that’s what I said)

by raiining



Series: Angels Wear White [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom/sub, First Kiss, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hand Feeding, M/M, Missing Scene, No Porn, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: “Oh dear,” Aziraphale says. It’s not that he’s forgotten, exactly. He can still recall — vividly — the moment he’d seen the demon at the bar draped in black and thought: Oh, of course.





	Take me to the room where the red’s all red  (take me out of my head, that’s what I said)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [VID: Bring it Home (Sugar Daddy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891168) by [promethia_tenk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/promethia_tenk/pseuds/promethia_tenk). 

> Hello all! Has someone done a d/s verse fic yet? I needed one desperately. Can I just say that "gentle dom Aziraphale" already being an accepted tag gives me life? I love it!
> 
> Huge thanks to the wonderful nied who beta'd this for me! 
> 
> Title from “Dragon Attack” by Queen

The walk to Petronius’s isn’t long, not half a mille passum. They talk of inconsequential things as they stroll, food they’ve tried in other locations, the horrors of second pressed wine. A few people glance in their direction but Aziraphale doesn’t worry. 

The atmosphere changes the moment they step into the restaurant, though. Aziraphale swallows hard and looks around. “Oh dear,” he says. It’s not that he’s _ forgotten, _ exactly. He can still recall — vividly — the moment he’d seen the demon at the bar draped in black and thought _ oh, of course _. But that was just Rome getting into his head. It was likely that Crowley didn’t even realize. Aziraphale himself hadn’t known until he’d been here a week and even then it’d taken another two for him to believe it. He turns to Crowley and sees that he must have noticed something because he’s chosen a table in the far corner with his back against the wall.

Aziraphale hurries towards him. Without thinking, he reaches out puts a hand on Crowley’s arm.

Crowley flinches

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale says immediately. He steps back and puts both hands in the air. “I should have asked first.”

Crowley looks annoyed, though whether that’s because of Aziraphale or his own reaction it’s impossible to say. Aziraphale is _ not _a fan of the new glasses. “‘S fine. What is it?”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale prevaricates. Now that Crowley’s staring at him he feels foolish. What do human concerns matter? Except then a woman in a white toga passes them and her eyes linger appreciatively on Crowley’s shoulders.

Aziraphale glares at her and takes an unconscious half-step closer to his companion, and then he _ has _to say something because Crowley’s glare now carries a hint of amusement. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking that perhaps we should go somewhere else for lunch.” He glances around. “Somewhere more private, perhaps.” 

Crowley looks confused. “Why? I thought you said the oysters were better here?”

“They are! Or, at least, I’ve heard that they are, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Crowley looks even more confused. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. Maybe Crowley hasn’t noticed the looks after all. Maybe his paranoia was simply the standard of Hell. It must be a truly terrible place. “Right.”

Crowley’s eyes narrow. _ “You’re _clearly uncomfortable, though. Why?” He glances around at the other patrons. The restaurant is crowded but not unreasonably so. “What’s this about, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale avoids his eye. Crowley has always been too perceptive. “Nothing! It’s just, I forgot your tendency to dress in black, and we’re in Rome and Petronius — well,” Aziraphale can feel his gaze dart to the humans in black and white and grey around them. Grey! In Rome! “Humans do so like to talk.”

Crowley’s expression eases. “That they do,” he says with a sudden salacious grin. He leans forward. “Tell me me _ everything. _What filthy things are they saying about him?”

“They aren’t _ filthy,” _Aziraphale says, irritably. He has a soft spot for the deviants, he knows. He does his best not to think about that when he’s spending time with Crowley. “They simply say that he’s rather — er — loose with his dynamic. Doms and subs alike are,” he glances around, “welcome at his table.”

Crowley’s grin widens. “That’s quite the euphemism. I’m proud of you, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale glares. 

Crowley chuckles and leans back. “But come on, _ dynamic.” _He waves a hand. “That’s a human concept. What’s it got to do with us?”

Aziraphale, still feeling stung, makes a point of looking Crowley up and down. _ “Well,” _he says, “I’m not sure if you know this, being new in town and such, but it’s been the fashion in Rome these past few years for doms to wear white and subs to wear black.”

Crowley, who had almost looked like he flushed under the attention just for a moment, stops and groans. _ “Oh,” _he says. “Really?” He glances down at his tunic. “That would explain a few things.”

“Would it?” Aziraphale asks, all innocence. Serves the demon right for teasing him. “Been getting a few glances since you arrived, then?”

Crowley looks irritated for half a second before he grins. _ “Have _ I,” he practically purrs. He turns his head slightly, stretching his arms and arching his back. He’s _ clearly _aware of the attention he’s drawing in the restaurant by doing that. Three separate people turn their heads to stare at him. “That’s not a problem for me, of course. Temptation’s in the job description, after all.”

“Be as that may,” Aziraphale snaps. He does _ not _appreciate Crowley showing himself off like a prized sheep, “if we are going to eat lunch then I expect you to behave civilly.”

“Oh you _ expect, _do you now?” Crowley challenges. He’s dropped the purr and Aziraphale’s glad of it. He doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. “Gotten used to that, have you? Been enjoying Rome?” His mouth twists. “You haven’t changed your customary colours, either, I see.”

Aziraphale draws himself up to his full height and tries to ignore how deeply he can feel his face colouring. “It would be inappropriate for me to dress in any other colour but that which reflects the Glory of Her.”

“Right,” Crowley drawls. “It’s got nothing to do with the fact that you like being the one in charge. Telling people where to go, what to do, how — ” he leans forward and his voice drops — “to please you. _ That’s _not what you enjoy about it at all.”

Aziraphale swallows. His eyes dart around. They’re in the middle of the restaurant! Of course, it’s Petronius’, but still. “I — ” 

Crowley isn’t finished, though. He takes another step closer. “You like being the one to give the ordersss,” he hisses, “don’t you? You’ve had enough of doing what Heaven tells you. You want to make your _ own _choices for once.” He grins with all his teeth and leans back. “Or am I wrong?”

Aziraphale’s heart pounds. “What about _you,”_ he accuses instead of answering, instead of thinking about Crowley’s words, of wondering if they’re _right_. “You couldn’t possibly enjoy submitting, not when it means you finally get to drop the act, get to lie down at someone’s feet and relax_.” _He finds himself, to his surprise, also stepping forward, getting right into Crowley’s space. Somehow, despite the differences in their heights, he feels the new ability to loom over the demon. He tries to ignore how much he likes it. “Because in that scenario you’d know that you were safe, that there was no reason to watch your back. You’d be able to close your eyes and blindly follow orders and_ worship _someone again, wouldn’t you?”

His mouth has been moving without any input from his brain. He feels the words are true _ — knows _the words are true — but still regrets them for the look of intense longing they put on the demon’s face.

It doesn’t last, of course. Crowley draws back a half a second after Aziraphale finishes, but that was a half a second too long, and they both know it. “You know,” Crowley says, his voice suddenly, carefully, blank. “I don’t really think I’m in the mood for oysters after all.” 

Azriaphale’s stomach drops. “Oh,” he says, his heart pounding, _ “no. _Crowley, I’m so sorry, please don’t — ”

“S fine,” Crowley says, but he’s too still and refusing to look at Aziraphale now. “I’m not really into food, you know that.” He grins but it comes out flat. “Alcohol’s more my thing. I’ll just take off, find a bar, and you can — ”

“No,” Aziraphale says. He wants to grab Crowley’s arm but doesn’t, knows he’s made enough of a mess of things as it is. Instead he gestures to the table Crowley has lead them to. “Sit, please. I’ll get wine. It’ll be my treat.” He swallows and looks at Crowley. He feels awful. “Please?”

Crowley presses his lips together. His gaze — damn those glasses! — seems to flicker to Aziraphale for a moment before darting away. “Fine,” he says. He lifts his chin. “Better be good wine, though.”

“Oh it is,” Aziraphale promises, knowing that if it isn’t, he’ll make it good. “Be right back, my dear.”

The endearment slips out before he can stop it, and he hurries to the bar before he can hear Crowley try and protest it. He is a dear. He may be a demon but Aziraphale just wants to say sorry forever, wrap him in soft blankets, and — 

He swallows as he turns to the counter. There’s a reason Aziraphale likes the deviants. A soft angel who only wants to pet people — doms and subs alike — and treat them gently is_ not _something Heaven would understand. 

The girl at the counter looks up. “Yes?” she asks. She’s wearing grey which means she’s a switch. Aziraphale smiles at her. 

“A jug of red and two plates of oysters, please. Table nine.”

She nods and turns to the back, shouting his order to the kitchen and fetching him a jug of wine. Aziraphale takes it from her and walks back to the table. Crowley is there, still alone, staring down at his hands and wearing a conflicted expression. It smoothes away the moment he looks up. “That didn’t take long.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I forgot the cups but no matter.” He waves a hand and conjures two for the table. One has little snakes etched around the edge and the other tiny writing. He pours wine into them both. “Food will be a mite longer, I think, but let’s not worry about that. Tell me more about what happened after I saw you last. Where did you go after Golgotha?”

Crowley takes his wine. “Ah, back to Hell, actually. Had to make my report. Didn’t get back until recently, and then it was up to Gaul for me.”

“Ugh,” Aziraphale commiserates, “awful weather they’ve been having there.”

“Tell me about it,” Crowley agrees. He seems to glance at Aziraphale before relaxing a little, kicking his legs out. “Was plenty glad to be ordered south. Figured it meant I’d been forgiven for not doing a better job on the mountain.” He makes a face. “Well, not _ forgiven _forgiven. You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I suppose I do,” he says. “Were they upset? The humans crucified that poor boy, in the end.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, “thought they’d been thrilled about that — and they were — but I got a reckoning for not tempting him good enough. Dagon seemed to think we could have switched him over to our side instead of letting him become a martyr.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

Crowley shrugs. “Yeah, well, that’s Hell for you.” He looks at Aziraphale. “What about you?” He colours slightly. “I mean, what have you been doing instead of — ”

“Rome?” Aziraphale asks lightly. He shakes his head. “Nothing much, I’m afraid. I came here straight after Golgotha. Well, I walked, so it took a bit of doing but not that much.” He’d tried to do good deeds along the way but isn’t sure if he’d managed it. From what he can recall he’d mostly shuffled forward in a daze. “It was a very hard thing to witness.” He clears his throat. “That terrible business, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. His voice sounds hoarse. He clears his throat and takes another sip from his wine. “Didn’t go back to Heaven then?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says.

“Why not?” Crowley asks.

“Well,” Aziraphale prevaricates, “they didn’t ask me to.”

“And you didn’t volunteer?” Crowley’s grin carries a hint of its usual humour. 

“I didn’t, no,” Aziraphale says primly. He looks up as their waitress arrives carrying two plates of oysters sitting in half shells. “Ah, here they are.”

Crowley tenses again as the waitress leans over to put down the plates. His eyes seem to linger on the grey wash of her tunic, but he doesn’t ask any questions. 

Aziraphale looks over the oysters. “Oh, thank you, dear lady. They look lovely.” He slides her a tip and gives her an unobtrusive blessing as she stands. “Marvellous.”

Crowley hasn’t moved from his side of the table. He watches as Aziraphales takes in the aroma. “So these are oysters, then? They don’t look like much to me.”

“Oh they’re delicious,” Aziraphale says happily. He picks one up, using the knife that came with the dish to separate the muscle from its shell. “Like this, my dear. Petronius sprinkles the most wonderful assortment of fermented oils on them, or so I’ve been told.” He holds the oyster to his lips, savours the briny wonder of it for a moment, then tips it back into his mouth. “Mm,” he can’t help but murmur as the wet-cold-salty with spicy overtones slides deliciously down his throat. “Outstanding.”

Crowley swallows. Those damned glasses still hide his eyes but Aziraphale can see the bob of his throat. He tries not to stare as he chooses another oyster and repeats the experience.

Mm! Simply wonderful! Each oyster is seasoned slightly differently. Aziraphale can taste vinegar, cider, wine, and spices in the briny bath. He’s developing quiet the palate, if he says so himself. In fact, he’s so lost in the taste combinations that he’s three oysters in before he registers that Crowley hasn’t moved yet. “My dear boy,” he says, the endearment slipping out again, “I’m so sorry. Would you like to try one?” He pats his mouth clean with a napkin that might not have been on the table a moment ago.

“I’m not sure yet,” Crowley says. He’s clearly trying to sound unaffected but his voice comes out slightly odd, as though strangled. “Maybe later.”

“Oh, come now,” Aziraphale says. “I know you said you weren’t in the mood, but — ”

Crowley swallows. “I didn’t say — ” He clears his throat. “I mean, I wanted a drink first.” He lifts his cup of wine. “I’ve had a drink. Not sure if I’m finished it yet.”

There’s something in Crowley’s voice, a discordant note that catches Aziraphale’s attention. He waits, watching for a moment, and catches a hint of what looks like_ heat _from behind Crowley’s tinted glasses. It makes him swallow.

“It’s quite good wine, I thought,” Aziraphale murmurs. He’d been reaching for another oyster but puts his hand down instead. It rests on the table, not quite but almost halfway across. “From the south side of Rome.”

“Not what I usually drink,” Crowley says, his voice just as quiet, “but it’s alright.”

“I could change it if you like,” Aziraphale offers. He glances from the cup to Crowley’s black tunic. “Or you could. All it would take is a thought to change the colour.” 

Crowley’s hand tightens around his cup. It shakes slightly. “Would still be red wine, though,” Crowley rasps. “At its heart.” 

“And it’s quite perfect as it is,” Aziraphale agrees, maybe a shade too quickly. “No need to change a thing, not on my account.” He takes the jug and raises it for Crowley. “Another?”

Crowley hesitates. For a being who usually moves so quickly, it’s heartbreaking to see, but in far less time than Aziraphale would have taken, Crowley manages a faint smile. “What the hell,” he says, handing his glass to Aziraphale. “I’m already damned.”

Aziraphale tuts at him but refills his glass. He hands it back and then returns his attention to the oysters. Freeing another, he raises it to his lips. He enjoys it just as much as he had the other three but he’s more aware this time of Crowley’s gaze on him. He seems to split his attention between the oyster, Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale’s lips. 

“You should have another,” Crowley says, his voice hoarse as Aziraphale pats his mouth with the napkin. “You seem to be really enjoying those for an angel.”

“I am,” Aziraphale agrees. He reaches for another. “They’re delicious.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Crowley murmurs as he watches Aziraphale pick up the oyster and raise it to his mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips when Aziraphale swallows. It’s forked, just slightly, at the end. His glasses have slipped a little down his nose. “Maybe I will try one, then.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asks. He knows he sounds too eager so he stops and clears his throat. “I mean, I would like that. I’d enjoy watching you try one.”

Crowley nods jerkily.

“Would you allow me to get it ready for you?” Aziraphale asks. He meets Crowley’s eyes. He can only see half of them, the glint that’s visible over the top of his glasses, but it’s enough. He’s never understood what humans were talking about before, that wonderful _ dom-sense _they’ve described, but he feels something sure and almost divine settle over him as he lifts his knife. “Please?”

“Sure,” Crowley says and his voice has gone hoarse. Aziraphale feels a momentary burst of pride _ — I did that! Me! — _but he tucks it away. He focuses instead on Crowley. His shoulders are tense but he hasn’t looked away. “Why not.”

Aziraphale smiles and frees the oyster. He looks up when he’s done and meets Crowley’s gaze, raising the treat still sitting in its shell. “Please be careful, though, it’s slippery. Easy to tip.”

Crowley bites his lower lip. There’s nothing practiced in the motion. It looks tense. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He feels himself on the same edge, except it’s too late, he’s going over. “Should I feed it to you?”

There’s a beat pulsing in Crowley’s throat. His eyes are almost completely yellow. “Do I have to sssay pleassse?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says with a smile — oh so gentle — and leans towards him with the oyster in his hand, “but you do have to say yes.” He pauses. “Or no.”

Crowley swallows but Aziraphale doesn’t look away. Crowley turns his head slightly and hisses. “Thiss is a dangerous game you’re playing, angel.”

“It’s not a game at all,” Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley makes a face, so he goes on. “It would be if you or I were human, but we aren’t, are we?”

Crowley looks back at him and swallows. Aziraphale holds his gaze. He knows what Crowley means. Frolicking with humans, learning their ways, is one thing, but Crowley’s a _ demon. _ He has depths humans will never have, needs that surpass any mortals could comprehend.

Which means, Aziraphale realizes with a surge of sympathetic understanding, that Crowley hasn’t really understood the idea of dynamic, either. It_ is _ a human concept when you’re playing with humans. What was it to offer dominance or submission to a human? A game and nothing more. But for _ him — _ for Crowley to sit here, waiting, breath caught in his throat as he stares at Aziraphale — for him to agree to this, that’s _ real. _Real, and not something either of them can walk away from. 

If Crowley says yes.

Crowley swallows one more time. Aziraphale gives into the urge and places his fingertips against Crowley’s throat, right next to the place where his blood pumps through his veins. Crowley gasps under his touch, shuddering as he turns, pressing the heat of his skin into Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Yess,” he groans — something half a word and half a hiss. “Yes, I — please. _ Aziraphale.” _

“Here then,” Aziraphale says, and it’s so easy to be gentle because that’s what he wants to be. That’s what Crowley deserves_ . _“Here, my darling. Open up.” He slides his hand up to cup Crowley’s face, uses the tip of his finger to nudge his lips apart. Crowley shudders again at his touch and then groans as the shell is brought to his lips and tipped upwards. 

He takes the oyster beautifully, holding it in his mouth and then swallowing, eyes flickering back to Aziraphale’s as if to ask if he’d done it right. “Wonderfully done,” Aziraphale praises, warmth infusing his voice. He couldn’t hold it back if he tried. He slides his hand around to grip the back of Crowley’s neck, leaving his thumb on his jawline to press into the firm skin there. “You took that so well.”

Crowley’s eyes are blown. He shivers. “Another?”

“Anything you want, darling,” Aziraphale says softly. He feels so wonderfully happy, so protective of Crowley. He wants to cradle him in his arms and feed him the entire plate, wants to wrap him in his wings and watch him swallow each one down. 

And, with a start, Aziraphale realizes he can do that. It wouldn’t take more than a miracle to put up a barrier the humans would never notice. He looks at Crowley. “Should I grant us some privacy?” He hitches a shoulder to indicate the restaurant around them. “There are some things I don’t think the humans need to see.”

Crowley’s eyes sharpen with a hint of his usual humour. “You’re just feeling possessive today.”

Aziraphale makes a face. “When it comes to you, I always am.” He erects the barrier with a thought. “There, now the humans can’t see us.” He uses the knife to free another oyster. “And neither can anybody else.”

Crowley hisses. “You can’t keep that up for long, angel. Someone will notice.”

“Not for long, then,” Aziraphale promises. It isn’t a promise he wants to make, but it’s one he knows he needs to. To apologize, he uses another miracle to slip through the table, enlarging the seat Crowley’s sitting on, turning it into a bench so he can tuck himself in close beside him. “Here, my darling,” he says, holding the oyster up for Crowley to see. “Here’s another, just for you.”

Crowley looks pained for half a second before his eyes flutter shut. He allows Aziraphale to place the shell against his lips. Aziraphale feels him shudder and can’t resist the great, yawning protectiveness that surges through him. Without thinking, he manifests his wings and wraps them around Crowley. He uses the hand he has on Crowley’s neck to tip his head back and then upends the oyster into his waiting mouth.

“That’s good,” he says, dropping the shell back into the plate and rubbing circles into Crowley’s back. “That’s wonderfully good. Well done, darling.”

Crowley shivers. “Aziraphale,” he slurs. He presses forward, pushing his head into Aziraphale’s chest, tucking his fingers into Aziraphale’s toga. “Aziraphale, I — ”

“Shh,” Aziraphale gentles. His wings shift, wrapping more tightly around them both. He rubs the hand at Crowley’s neck down his back, using his other to press him closer into Aziraphale’s arms. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Crowley chokes on a sob. “I — ” he starts. “I never — ”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale finds himself saying. “That’s okay, darling. I’m here now.” He rubs circles into Crowley’s back. “You’ve had a hard few decades, haven’t you?”

Crowley sobs and nods, only the tips of his ears visible, the rest of his face buried in Aziraphale’s chest. 

“First down in that nasty place,” Aziraphale hears himself say, thinking of how Crowley had looked this morning when he’d first spied him at the bar, tired and weary and angry, “and then trapped up in Gaul with the weather growing worse. You haven’t had a chance to relax since that terrible time in Israel, have you? You haven’t had a moment to breathe.”

Crowley swallows, the force of it shifting his shoulders a little. “Demons don’t need to breathe,” he says, though his voice is muffled through Aziraphale’s toga. “Don’t need to do lots of things.”

“But it’s nice to do some of those things, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks softly. “It’s nice to breathe.”

“A demon — a demon isn’t supposed to be _ nice,” _ Crowley hiccups. He’s pulling back now. Aziraphale wants to tuck him back down but doesn’t. He watches as Crowley sits up, his face red and blotchy. “Nice is a four letter word.”

Aziraphale smiles. He hasn’t let go of Crowley, only allowed him some space. They’re still sitting very close together. “But you, my dear, are very good at not doing what people tell you.” He laughs when Crowley hisses. “And that’s okay, sweetheart. It makes you a brat sometimes, but that’s not a bad thing.” He rubs circles into Crowley’s back. “You’re always very good to me, aren’t you? Very considerate. Why, that time with the Ark — ”

Crowley’s going tense again so Aziraphale stops. “Well, what I meant to say was, I was very impressed with you. I thought you did a wonderful job.” He smiles warmly at Crowley. “I’m not sure I’ve ever told you that, have I?”

Crowley’s swallows heavily. He very slowly shakes his head.

“Well, it’s true,” Aziraphale says. He rubs more circles into Crowley’s back. “You know, angels aren’t supposed to be nice, either,” he admits “We’re supposed to be hard and judgemental to humans, subservient and obedient among ourselves.”

Crowley manages a huff at that. “Not really being ‘subservient’ right now, are you, Angel?”

“No,” Aziraphale admits, adjusting one of the lovely curls framing Crowley’s face, “I guess I’m not. And yet,” his voice hitches, “I _ like _it. I enjoy this, being able to offer this to you. Maybe that’s a temptation, I don’t know.”

Crowley’s voice is very low. “It feels like one to me.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Is that a bad thing, darling?”

Crowley shivers. “No,” he admits. Then his voice hardens. “And _ yess. _It’s not something I can get used to, angel.” 

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale agrees quietly. “I wish you could, though. I wish I were always free to offer it.”

“If wishes were fishes,” Crowley sings quietly. He looks up Aziraphale. “You know They’re always watching.”

“Not right now They’re not,” Aziraphale promises. He reaches for the plate on the table, picks up a shell, and offers it to Crowley. “Another?”

Crowley smiles. It’s a real smile, edged in pain and heartsick and sore, but real. “Maybe just one,” he says, “for the road. I do have some tempting to get to while I’m here.”

Aziraphale pouts. “But we haven’t finished the plate.”

Crowley’s expression warms. “Let’s finish the plate, then, angel. How many more?”

Aziraphale throws a glance over his shoulder. There were four oysters. He promptly steals two from another table. “Six.”

Crowley’s grin tells him his miracle did not go unobserved. He wiggles slightly, tucking himself further into Aziraphale’s lap. “Very well, then. Six.”

Aziraphale feeds him six. He takes his time with each one, has Crowley smell the brine and the scent of the ocean, asks him to identify the different flavours exploding on his tongue. He isn’t sure how much time passes while they sit together, but it doesn’t matter, because it was always going to be too short, in the end.

They’ve come to the final oyster. Aziraphale looks at it sadly. Crowley seems to follow his gaze.

“They’ ll grow curious soon,” he says lightly, though there’s a warning in his voice.

Aziraphale wishes suddenly and fiercely — not for the first time, though the first time he’d nearly discorporated from shock — that Heaven would leave Earth alone. “They will,” he agrees tightly. He sighs and lifts the oyster. “The last one then, for now. Until we meet again.”

Crowley smiles, tips his head back. “Until then.”

Aziraphale gives in and places one hand on Crowley’s jawline, leaving his thumb pressed against the skin of Crowley’s throat. Crowley shudders but accepts it, even closes his eyes as Aziraphale tips the oysters into his mouth. 

He keeps them closed as he chews, then sighs and shifts forward again, resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Angel,” he says, his voice slightly muffled again, “can I ask for something else?”

“Anything, darling,” Aziraphale says, knowing he means it more than he should.

Crowley lifts his head to look at him. “Kiss me?” he swallows. “Just once, for the road?” 

Aziraphale swallows. “Of course, darling,” he whispers. He knows even as he says it that it’s going to hurt. Of course it’s going to hurt and Crowley _ knows _it’s going to hurt but he’s asking for it anyway. He’s always been the braver of the two. It makes Aziraphale smile. “I’m so proud of you for asking.”

Crowley’s breath hitches. His hands weave themselves into Aziraphale’s toga. He holds himself still as Aziraphale moves slowly to cup his face, looking down at him and memorizing every millimeter. This demon, sitting in his arms, tense and expectant and wanting, is the headiest Aziraphale’s ever felt, more intoxicating than any wine. 

“Darling,” he whispers once, stroking his thumbs along the underside of Crowley’s jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Crowley shudders. He’s on the edge of breaking apart. Aziraphale moves. He bends carefully and presses their lips together. Crowley’s mouth is warm under his, his lips dry, just the slightest hint of wet from the oyster. _ Oh, _ Aziraphale thinks. Crowley feels so good, so perfect and right _ . _

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to shudder. He wants — so very badly — to deepen the kiss, to explore Crowley’s mouth the way humans have taught him to explore, to take it farther deeper, but he doesn’t. He pulls back instead. “Until next time,” Aziraphale whispers,forcing himself to let Crowley go. “I’ll be waiting.”

Crowley shivers. He nods once, his eyes still closed as he raises one hand. With a complicated gesture he’s suddenly gone, nothing but a faint _ pop _ of air from the place where he’d been mere moments before.

Aziraphale sighs and shifts to look about the restaurant. It’s still crowded but no one is watching him, a suddenly-dejected angel in a toga with white wings. Shifting his shoulders, he puts his wings away again. Raising one hand, he releases the barrier. 

There’s no rush of Heavenly attention, no brimstone scent of Hell. Both of their Head Offices have other business to attend to. It seems they’ve gotten away with this, at least this time.

It won’t be the last time, Aziraphale promises himself. He promises Crowley, or at least the memory of him. 

“For you,” Aziraphale says, finding the waitress before he leaves. He drops what he knows is a week’s wages into her hands. “For the lovely service. Thank you.”

He leaves the restaurant. He walks away. It will be a very long time before he eats oysters again. 

  
  


  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So a lot of this was indirectly inspired by the vid Bring It Home (Sugar Daddy) and, even more so, but the plethora of links available at the bottom. I don't necessarily agree with all the interpretations but I love the thought that all of them inspired, mostly the take on Rome and how everything begins to change for the two of them there.


End file.
